“No!” she cried wildly. She tried to scrabble away, but he seized her ankle and casually jerked her back. Other men were standing up to get a better view. As he exposed himself to Malta, Kekki’s words rushed back to her. “Fa-chejy kol!” she blurted. “Fa-chejy kol!” He looked startled. She pushed her hair back from her face. He recoiled suddenly in horror, uttering an exclamation of disgust. She did not care. It had worked. She jerked away from him, managed to stand, raced the last few strides to shelter, flung herself through the door flap and collapsed on the floor. Her breath sobbed in and out of her. Her elbows stung. She blinked something wet from her eye, then wiped at it. Blood. The fall had opened her scar again.

The Satrap did not even lift his head from his pillow. “Where is my book?” he demanded.

Malta gasped a breath. “I don’t think he has any,” she managed to say.

Calm words. Steady voice. Do not let him know how scared you are. “I said the words you told me. He just pointed at the door.”

“How annoying. I fear I shall die of boredom on this boat. Come and rub my feet. Perhaps I will doze off. There is certainly nothing else to do.”

No choice, Malta told herself. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her mouth so dry she could scarcely breathe through it. No choice, except painful death. Her elbows and knees stung; they were skinned raw. She pulled a splinter from her palm, then crossed the tiny room to sit on the floor by his feet. He glanced at her, then jerked his feet away from her touch. “What is the matter with you? What is that?” He stared at her brow.

“I fell. I opened the cut again,” she said simply. She lifted her hand to touch it gingerly. Her fingers came away sticky with blood and a thick white pus. Malta stared at it in horror. She picked up one of Kekki’s rags and dabbed at her brow. It did not hurt much, but more of the stuff soaked the rag. Malta began to shake as she looked at it. What was it, what did it mean?

There was no mirror to consult. She had avoided touching the scar on her forehead. She had not wanted to remind herself it was there. Now she let her fingers walk over it. It hurt, but not as much as it seemed it should for all the blood and discharge. She forced herself to explore it. It was as long as her forefinger and stood up in a thick ridge as wide as two of her fingers. The scar felt knobby, ridged and gristly like the end of a chicken bone. A shudder ran over her. She wanted to vomit. She lifted her face to the Satrap. “What does it look like?” she demanded quietly.

He did not seem to hear her. “Don’t touch me. Go clean yourself, and bind something across that. Feh! I cannot look at that. Get away.”

She turned away from him, refolded the rag and held it against her brow. It grew heavy and wet. Pink fluid trickled down her wrist to her elbow. It wasn’t stopping. She scooted over to sit by Kekki, seeking any kind of companionship. She was now too frightened even to cry. “What if I’m dying from this?” she whimpered. Kekki did not respond. Malta looked at her, and then stared.

The Companion was dead.

Out on the deck, a sailor shouted something excitedly. Others took up the cry. The Satrap sat up suddenly on his pallet. “The ship! They’re hailing the ship! Perhaps now there will be decent food and wine. Malta, fetch my… oh, now what ails you?” He glared at her irritably, and then followed her gaze to Kekki’s corpse. He sighed. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” He shook his head sadly. “What a nuisance.”

SERILLA HAD ORDERED THAT HER LUNCHEON BE BROUGHT TO THE LIBRARY. SHE sat awaiting it with an anticipation that had nothing to do with hunger. The tattooed serving woman who set it before her moved with precise courtesy that grated on Serilla’s nerves.

“Never mind that,” she said, almost sharply, as the woman began to pour her tea for her. “I’ll do the rest for myself. You can go now. Please remember that I am not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, lady.” The stoic woman bobbed her head and retreated to the door.

Serilla forced herself to sit still at the table until she heard the door shut firmly behind her. Then she rose swiftly, cat-footed across the room and eased the latch into place. A servant had opened the drapes to the wet wintry day outside. Serilla drew them closed and surreptitiously checked to be sure the edges overlapped. When she was certain that no one could enter the room nor spy on her, she went back to the table. Ignoring the food, she took up the napkin and shook it hopefully.

Nothing fell out.

Disappointment squeezed her. Last time, the note had been folded discreetly within the napkin. She had no idea how Mingsley had managed it, but she had hoped he would contact her again. She had replied to his overture with a note of her own, left at his suggestion under a flowerpot in the disused herb garden behind the house. When she checked on it later, the note was gone. He should have replied by now.